


'Twas Definitely Not The Night Before Christmas

by Random_Nexus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Mrs. Watson, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, WAdvent 2018, Watch Out For Mrs. Hudson's Eggnogg, Watson's Woes WAdvent, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: A haphazard accounting of some seasonal goings-on at 221B Baker Street. Watch out for Mrs. Hudson's eggnogg, just saying. (Handy reference for'Twas The Night Before Christmas by Clement Clarke Moore)Written for:Watson's Woes Community on Dreamwidth, specifically theWAdvent Event.Warnings:Men who love men, Implied kinky manly scrumpings, Alcohol consumption, Implied possible drug use, Christmas costume abuse, Higglety-pigglety writing style, Assorted silly nonsense.





	'Twas Definitely Not The Night Before Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm well over halfway done with the fic I was _meant_ to do for the [Watson's Woes Community on Dreamwidth](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/), specifically the [WAdvent Event](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/tag/comm+event:+wadvent). The problem is that it's due on the 28th (today, or it _was_ 'today' when I started this fic), but between health issues taking away several weeks (total) of my writing time and company showing up at an inconvenient time, I wasn't done and one of the lovelies on the Watson's Woes Community (looking at you, my dear [Methylviolet10b](https://methylviolet10b.dreamwidth.org/) *wavewave*) suggested I do a short something else, like a drabble, for the 28th and post the other one when I was finished, instead of making myself crazy. So, I started this. It was supposed to maybe be a 221B or... or something... IDEK, but here we are at nearly 2k and 3am. Yeah, why do I think I can do anything short? But it simply BURST out of me and I enjoyed writing the silly thing, so... here you go. Hope it's not too goofy for y'all, my dear readers.

It was… a few nights after Christmas and all through the house not a creature was stirring, except Mrs. Hudson downstairs still singing Christmas carols—what was that smell, anyway?

The stockings had been hung by the chimney with—well, without any particular care at all, since there’d been a bit of a row over whether stockings should be hung at all in the first place, and by the time stockings won out over no stockings, both John and Sherlock had gone through a whole carton of Mrs. Hudson’s eggnog. It was remarkable that the stockings were even on the mantel at all, quite honestly, and one of them was actually a mitten instead of a sock, because Sherlock had nearly derailed the entire ~~argument~~ discussion by trying on the tactic of pointing out that should any paraplegics visit them for a case, they might be offended by all the socks that they couldn’t possibly wear; John had shut that right down by tacking up the first mitten he could find in the flat. By the time Christmas Eve had rolled around, all of the socks—and the mitten—had been filled with assorted sweets and candy canes, after which someone (of course it was Sherlock) had stealthily and unapologetically eaten all the sweets, leaving a single candy cane in each. John hadn’t realistically expected to give any of the ‘stockings’ to those for whom they were meant, even though they’d put up a sock for everyone they could label either ‘friend’ or ‘family’ and they’d never decided whose was the mitten, but, by god, it was staying up there until bloody New Year’s, John had declared.

There had been no hopes that St. Nicholas would be there, mostly because it had been quite a few years since John believed in Father Christmas and Sherlock had only believed for a few short years before Mycroft ruined everything to do with Santa—his choice of costume for that wild Christmas party was certainly on the mark, given that he’d been rather like a bowl full of jelly at the time, but sneaking a randy young elf into the house and entertaining him in the sitting room before the fireplace had been a monumentally bad choice. Despite his having done his best to delete the memory, Sherlock found it returned at random Christmases to torment him. Mycroft had once offered Sherlock a substantial amount of money and the deed to a small tropical island if he would never mention it again. Ever.

However, despite having no plans to entertain a jolly fat man in a red suit, in the wee hours of Christmas Day a rather grubby version of one managed to sneak up the fire escape and crack the lock on the window in Sherlock’s bedroom. Although the fake Santa was armed with a red velvet sack full of pilfered goodies and a pry bar, he immediately surrendered to a very displeased Captain Watson, armed with combat boots, dog tags, vivid red pants with ‘ho ho ho’ printed on the bum, an assortment of love bites, and a very real, very loaded, Sig Sauer. The less said about what Sherlock was, or wasn’t, wearing the better.

That thieving not-Santa was snuggled quite safely in a cell’s uncomfortable bed, with stories of unsuccessful B and E and visions of a certain Consulting Detective’s ‘sugarplums’ that would not leave his head. Thank goodness he hadn’t been quick on the draw with his phone camera or he might have been far worse off than merely left on the front steps tied up with fairy lights and pretty red and green strapping tape across his mouth—lucky for the festive thief, Lestrade had been willing to collect him on the way home from a Christmas party to which Sherlock and John had not been invited.

Now they’d just settled in on the sofa for a more than slightly tipsy winter’s nap, since Mrs. Hudson had blithely brought them up another carton of her eggnog earlier, and John was once again wearing a Santa hat—Sherlock only allowed it after Christmas because there was mistletoe pinned to the furry white trim, which was the main reason John had kept putting it on periodically from mid-December on—and Sherlock was sporting a ridiculous knitted cap with a bobble and earflaps, another joke gift from the Yard. Though he’d mocked it and declared he would not wear ‘that ludicrous assault on fashion and sanity’ for love or money, apparently only half of that statement was true. Money meant very little to Sherlock, but some of the things John promised him if he would wear the damned thing were apparently worth the humiliation, as long as it was only they two who knew about it.

When out in the stairwell there arose such a clatter, John sprang from the sofa to see what was the matter. Unfortunately, the coffee table caught him right in the shins and John tumbled over it onto the floor with a handful of colourful remarks that woke Sherlock from his eggnog induced ~~stupor~~ nap. On his way down, John had half lost his favorite old pyjama bottoms, leading Sherlock to giggle a little and mutter, “Oh, look, it’s a full moon!” as he stepped over the coffee table, patting John on his exposed bum in passing, and made his way to the door.

“Thanks for nothing, you tit,” John growled as he got to his feet and pulled up the offending pyjama bottoms, retying the frayed drawstring as he followed Sherlock to the door.

Although Sherlock opened the flat door, John gently scooted him to one side and went down the stairs first, though Sherlock followed right on his heels—when they got to the bottom that was literal, as John stopped short and Sherlock didn’t stop short enough, though they’d both been holding the bannister, so no one face-planted… again. What had stopped John in his tracks was the sight of two young men in somewhat skimpy reindeer costumes just outside of the open door to basement flat ‘C’, along with Billy Wiggins in the upper part of a (fortunately) oversized Santa suit, holding what appeared to be a rather crumpled cardboard and duct tape model of a sleigh. The clatter had apparently been the pile of bell-decorated leather harness landing on the floor at Wiggins’ feet.

“…No, it’s on Dasher, on Prancer, on Donald… no, wait, where does Rudolph come in?” Wiggins was saying to one of the ersatz reindeer as John and Sherlock stood in stunned silence.

“Rudolph doesn’t even enter into it, Billy,” the taller of the two reindeer replied, shaking his head, fake antlers wobbling but not quite falling off.

“Yeah, everybody knows that,” the other reindeer chimed in, sounding mildly-disgusted and drunk. “Listen it’s ‘Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen!’”

By the time the young man had reached the last of the reindeer in his recital, John was grinning hugely and he could hear Sherlock doing one of his near-silent chuckles that generally consisted of mostly air and a crooked smile. When Wiggins’ costumed guest began the last part of Santa’s famous reindeer call-out, John chimed in as much due to too much eggnog as to habit—and, it turned out, so did Sherlock behind him, as well as Mrs. Hudson from her open flat door.

“To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!” all of them near-shouted merrily and then, upon realizing what they’d all done, burst into laughter.

That was, until Wiggins and his two not-at-all tiny reindeer realized what it meant that they weren’t alone.

“Oh, hell!” Exclaimed reindeer number one, his embarrassed shock still half coloured with humor and, very likely, alcohol or some sort of festive substance that John decided he did not need to know more about.

At the same time, reindeer number two was gasping in surprise, and Wiggins just smiled a little blearily and waved at the audience unexpectedly provided for him and his guests’ impromptu après Christmas performance.

“Call you later, Biggins,” the shorter reindeer said hurriedly, leaning in to smooch Wiggins with more speed than accuracy before turning to snatch an overcoat from one of the hooks by the main door, taking down a second and handing it to the taller reindeer. “Cab’s not going to wait forever.”

“Um… hi,” the first reindeer said awkwardly as he waved at John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson before taking his coat from his companion reindeer. “Merry—I mean, um, happy New Year. Bye, Billy.” After a false-start, he gave Wiggins a distracted kiss, too, and was putting on his coat as he followed the second reindeer out the door.

“Love the hat, Shezza,” Wiggins said with a smirky sort of smile.

“Shut up,” Sherlock replied a little less tartly than he probably meant to. He still sounded a bit amused.

“It’s been days since Christmas,” John said, having noticed the rug rash on Wiggins’ knees and some alarming looking love bites on his neck. “Why are you lot still in costume?”

Wiggins frowned in mild confusion, putting his hands on his hips. “Days? What day is it, then?”

Sherlock snorted in derision and said, “It’s the 28th, going on the 29th.”

“Well, whaddaya know… I been so busy with—”

“Bugger! My brownies!” Mrs. Hudson suddenly gasped. “G’night, boys,” she added hurriedly before turning and hurriedly shuffling into her flat, her odd gait bringing the hot pink bunny slippers she was wearing to John’s attention, the floppy ears bouncing wildly as she went. She shut the door too quickly for any of them to say anything in return.

Wiggins blinked a bit owlishly in the direction of Mrs. Hudson’s now closed door, and then took a breath with the obvious intention of continuing his last sentence.

Absolutely certain he didn’t want to know any details—no, really, not one—John held up a hand and quickly said, “Well, good night!”

“But—” Wiggins began.

Sherlock interrupted him in an overdone jovial tone, grabbing John’s hand and starting back up the stairs, dragging him along as he spoke, “Merry… eh… post-Christmas to all and to all a good night!”

Once they got upstairs, John burst into giggles and Sherlock joined him as they turned off the lights and stumbled to bed.


End file.
